


Sword and Lance Against the Night

by kashinoha



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Childersass, Footnotes, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Sickfic, anxious!Norrell, because I have to write at least one in any fandom I'm in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Norrell, required to attend a family-related gathering, turns to magic to calm his social anxiety. That goes about as well as to be expected, much to Childermass’s dismay. Pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword and Lance Against the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This will most likely be my last fic in the fandom, at least for a while. There may be some flaws in my research, and I know it's too long (I couldn't "kill my babies," as writers are often told to do to cut down their scenes), but I hope you all enjoy this!
> 
> I picture a younger version of Norrell that is less bitter, and a Childermass who is slightly more insolent than we know him. Other than that, I tried to stay as close to their novel personae as possible.

**Sword and Lance Against the Night**

All characters © Susanna Clarke

 

 

_1795_

 

Norrell had gone grey.

Childermass did not mean this in the sense of his hair, which remained a fine, mousy brown, but his complexion. Norrell’s face, having drained of all colour, was reminiscent of curdled cheese under a sick winter sky. He had begun to perspire.

Childermass closed the book he was reading, alarmed. His first thought was that something at breakfast had disagreed with Norrell, but the chances of that proved slim. His master had eaten the same bland gruel and apricots that he had eaten every morning for the past five years.

“Open the windows, Childermass,” Norrell said, sounding strained.

“Is everything alright, Mr Norrell?”

“No, it most certainly is not,” replied Norrell, brandishing a letter in his hand as he spoke. An envelope with a broken wax seal lay on the table beside him. “I cannot fathom why he should want _me_ —“Norrell broke off, swallowing. “Childermass, why are you not opening that window? I can’t—“he tugged at his neck cloth—“I cannot _breathe.”_

Childermass walked over to one of the study’s windows and pried it open with a grunt. It was an old, obstinate thing, very much like the land it was built on, and the crisp December air tickled his cheeks. Childermass dusted off his palms, regarded Norrell over one shoulder, and inquired, “Who was the letter from?”

“It was from _Haythornthwaite.”_ Norrell uttered the name as if there were no word more hateful in the English lexicon (an exception being the Raven King, respectively). Childermass blinked, uncomprehending.

“My cousin!” Norrell snapped, countenance suggesting he would be ill at any moment. “My inheritance comes from his father, and he believes that because of this he holds sway over me!”

“I hardly see such cause for alarm,” said Childermass. “You have never mentioned him.”

Norrell shook the envelope. “That was before he called upon me to attend…this…“ Abruptly, Norrell froze. A hand flew up to his throat.

Childermass frowned. “Mr Norrell? Sir?”

“I cannot _breathe,_ Childermass!” Norrell wheezed again, panic in his little eyes. “I do not know what is the matter—“

“Come to the window, Mr Norrell,” urged Childermass, guiding him by the elbow in hopes that the fresh air would calm his master. He was starting to develop a decent notion of what the matter was, though he did not say so aloud. “That’s it. Easy now.” Norrell stuck his head out the window in a rather undignified manner and noisily sucked in air.

“Loosen your neck cloth. Take a deep breath in, and out,” Childermass said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. It was a tone he more or less employed for the horses out in the stable, many of which were far less anxious than his master. Childermass could polish wood and make rabbit stew well enough, but he did not think himself suited to this kind of task.

Nigh a half-hour had gone by before Childermass asked quietly, “Are you ready to come inside?” Wordlessly, Norrell nodded. His colour was already improving.

“I will not ask you to speak of the contents of your cousin’s letter, only that you shew them to me,” Childermass said, gentle. Nodding again, Norrell handed him the post. He looked down at the floor.

Childermass scanned the letter, noting the similar cramped penmanship that seemed to run in the Norrell family. “He wishes you to attend his engagement banquet,” he read, tilting his head. “Does he know you are not inclined towards social matters?”

“He knows as well as you do,” said Norrell, still contemplating the floor in a sulk. “Oh, what am I to do?” he moaned. With a hand that had not entirely ceased its tremors, he tugged again at his undone neck cloth.

“Well firstly, we shall have you a cup of hot tea,” replied Childermass. “And you shall postpone the matter until to-morrow.”

Pouting, Norrell replied, “That is not very responsible of me, Childermass.”

“Do you wish to have another nervous fit, sir?”

Norrell sighed. “No, I suppose not,” he said.

Childermass left and proceeded to steam a pot of Earl Grey. After making sure all the other servants had vacated the pantry, Childermass mixed a few drops of opium into the tea and veiled its bitter taste with a spoonful of raw honey. Drugging his master was not something Childermass commonly did nor was it something he especially approved of, but he had learned to do so on the days when Norrell was overwrought with these bouts of anxiousness. He was three and twenty, having served his master six years come July. That being said, to-day’s display had been far worse than anything Childermass had yet witnessed from Norrell.

He supposed there was a kind of innate fear of people that befell the more unfortunate men of society. These men became hermits; friendless, lost, forever with a bitter taste in their mouths. Secretly, Childermass was glad not to be one of them.

 

 

 

“In two weeks’ time, I am to attend my cousin’s engagement party for Yule,” Norrell told Childermass the next morning. He spat the word _party_ like a swear word in a church, vulgar and in bad taste. Childermass glanced up from his copy of the monthly budget expenses, eyebrow raised.

“I have heard of more horrid things,” he said. Norrell was apt to disagree, and he showed as such by tutting and crossing his arms.

“It is a _ridotto,_ god forbid 1. Haythornthwaite always did have the most undesirable gusts2, but I suppose a mask does ease the situation. I shall not dance—“here Norrell gave a shudder—“but I fear socializing is inevitable. Hence, I have spent the night compiling a list of spells that should aid me in this endeavor.”

Childermass set down his quill pen. “I am not convinced these problems need be solved by magical means,” he said carefully.

“How else would I solve them?” asked Norrell, regarding Childermass as if he were some sort of imbecile. He beckoned. “Come here, Childermass,” he said, “I require your assistance.”

“You have never required my assistance with your studies,” said Childermass, eyes narrowed.

Norrell flapped his hand in the air. “That is because I practise for myself and no one else,” he replied. “But now that my magic shall have an audience I think it wise to practise it on you first.”

Childermass said, “I have already witnessed your magic, and would rather not see you cast spells on yourself.” Norrell looked taken aback.

“Whatever are you talking about?” he said. “No, you misunderstand; I shall be casting the spells on _you_ and observing the result. Now come.”

Childermass rose and approached the center of the study, muttering something about pigs from Guinea or some such insolence which Norrell presumed London street slang. Norrell, placing a heavy tome on the stand behind him, opened to a yellowed, marked page.

“This is Halstead’s spell for improving elocution,” he informed Childermass. “Do not fret,” he said when he caught Childermass eyeing the page with suspicion. “It is hardly dangerous. If successful, your speaking shall be smooth and elegant.”

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “And if unsuccessful?”

“It will not be,” Norrell assured him. “Halstead was a simple fellow, unlike his instructor, Martin Pale, and his spells are quite difficult to get wrong.3 Now, I just need some…ah. There it is.” he spotted a little phylactery with a tiny wax candle inside and scooped it up in his palm.

Now Childermass put some confidence in his master’s abilities, but he was uneasy all the same. He took a breath as Norrell lit the candle and whispered something that sounded vaguely melodic, figuring that if he were to meet a sudden demise he should at least savor a final whiff of fresh air.

Norrell closed his spellbook and peered at him. “Well?”

Childermass opened his mouth to reply:

 

_“If I may speak now Mr Norrell,_

_The thought of balls does right make you unwell._

_Try as you may to find the right spell,_

_To protect you from social assail,_

_I do believe your efforts will all fail._

_I hardly think it would please Martin Pale._

_If you wish to overcome your fears,_

_You need only with more people be near,_

_Instead of being cooped inside for years._

_Please do not regard me with that face,_

_My speech comes from a different kind of place,_

_Though secretly I hope it’s not Agrace.” 4_

 

The ensuing silence held for a good minute before anyone spoke. Childermass touched a finger to his lips, surprized and a trifle embarrassed.

“Was…was that iambic pentameter?” Norrell asked. He counted on his fingers. “Indeed! That was almost a sonnet,” he exclaimed in wonder, “though you did not follow the proper structure at all and you omitted the couplet entirely5...” Childermass could not have cared if it was a sonnet or a pirate sea shanty. Such things were not strictly woven into the loquaciousness of Yorkshiremen.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” Norrell mused, frowning. He shook out the tiny candle’s tiny flame and clapped his small hands together. “Well, not to worry. The effects should wear off in a few days. Do not look so outraged, Childermass! It could be worse; you could be stuck with macaronic verse, and then scarcely anyone would be able to understand you.” 6

Childermass looked outraged.

 

 

 

It was with some reluctance that Childermass approached the library at Norrell’s summons, five days later. For the better part of the week he had been permitted to speak in nothing but sonnets and verse, and was rejoicing in the ability to once again employ much-needed words like “bloody” and “bugger” into his daily vocabulary.

All of the spermaceti candles in Norrell’s candelabra had been replaced with long, thin candles of blue wax. As Childermass drew closer he observed that the new candles gave off a faint smell of chamomile. As for Mr Norrell himself, he was slumped in an armchair with an open book in his lap. Despite it being half past ten in the morning, he was quite asleep.

“You called, Mr Norrell,” Childermass said, leaning against one of the stone pillars and folding his arms. Norrell did not respond. “Sir.”

Childermass pushed himself away from the wall and leaned over his master’s armchair. “There is a mouse by your feet,” he whispered, grinning. Again, no response. Odd.

“Sir, I am going into your private collection of Aureate texts,” he announced, loudly. He plucked a book at random7 from a nearby shelf. “I think I shall tear a page out and use it to clean the chamber pot."

Still, nothing from Norrell. Childermass replaced the book, frowning. Normally, the man was roused by any little sound, which he often complained about to anybody who would listen (Childermass). The fact that he would not wake now meant that something was dreadfully wrong. Crouching down by the chair, Childermass placed two fingers to the inside of Norrell’s wrist.

The skin there was icy and the pulse far too sluggish for comfort.

Childermass’s first thought was to fetch the physician. He was seconds away from ringing the footman when his eyes caught sight of the book in Norrell’s lap. Upside-down, Childermass could make out _Chapter XXIV: Somnolent Magicks for the Troublen Hart._ He had never heard of magic rendering a subject comatose, but then there was plenty Childermass had yet to learn about magic. He peered down at the book again.

Childermass considered himself quite literate. He could read modern English, Latin, if it was spelled right, and his French was improving. Middle English, however, confused him to no end. Unfortunately many of Norrell’s older texts and the actual texts of the Aureates, if not in Latin, happened to be written in this. Childermass squinted at the spell _(To Calme Thyne Hartbeet)._ After several minutes’ frustration he finally got to the bottom of the page, where it read that to break the spell one only had to extinguish all the candles. Since he could not locate the candle snuffer, Childermass had to go about the library blowing the flames out one by one. By the time he had concluded, Norrell had woken.

“Childermass?” Norrell looked around, blinking his little eyes. “Did you say something about a chamber pot?”

Childermass could have throttled him.

 

 

 

With a smirk that was just barely hidden by strands of his dark hair, Childermass asked, “Have you considered there may be a reason these spells are not working as you intend?”

Norrell made a face and placed a powdered cream wig on the round table next to him. The wig had been his father’s and was much too big and bushy, making Norrell look more like a woodland creature than a man just over the ridge of thirty.

“What reason could there be apart from the fact that all these magicians recorded their magic very poorly?” he asked, irritable. “I merely require more precise magic. Perhaps I should try Sir Kenton Langley’s _Humanus Rejecto._ It repels anyone in a hundred-foot radius.” 8

“I would not advise that,” said Childermass, rolling his eyes.

“What am I to do then?” Norrell cried. “My cousin’s event is in three days!”

Childermass sighed. “Be calm, Mr Norrell,” he said. “You will figure the matter out.”

“I have it!” exclaimed Norrell, replacing the wig atop his head. “Bartley Brone’s spell of All Knowledge, so that I may be fit to speak on any topic!”

Childermass, who had been picking at a hole in his breeches, paused. “You once told me you did not believe in the divination of magic,” he said. “’For the beetle-brained,’ if I recall.”

“Yes, yes, I detest all of that business, what with dreams and astral projection and crystal balls you can purchase in London for less than a guinea,” replied Norrell with a wave of his hand, “but _intellectual_ divination is a different matter entirely.” He then proceeded to deliver Childermass a lengthy history of magician-scholars who used knowledge spells for the good of their academia.

Childermass was the only servant and perhaps the only man in all of England who would dare interrupt Mr Norrell during one of his lectures. He did so now by tapping a nail on the table and saying, “The spell, sir.”

Norrell paused in the middle of describing a wonderful instance of magic being used to record the lost dining habits of Julius Caesar and shook his head. “Right. Come here, Childermass.”

“Cannot you perform this magic upon yourself?” Childermass asked.

“I need to see how it affects one of lesser knowledge,” said Norrell.

Childermass’s lip curled up. “Naturally.”

“Fetch me an Egyptian cross9 from my cabinet,” said Norrell, scratching his head under the wig. “This spell requires us to remove our shoes and light some frankincense.”

They did so, and Norrell recited the spell. When he had concluded he administered a tap to Childermass’s head, as if expecting to find it changed in some manner.

“Do you feel any different?” asked Norrell. Childermass gave a shrug. Norrell waved the cross at Childermass. “Say the first thing that comes into your mind,” he instructed. “I wish to discuss…let us say the weather, for to-day’s sake.” It was snowing outside.

Childermass gazed upon the frost on the window thoughtfully, then back at Norrell. _“In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it,”_ he said.

Norrell blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Childermass, looking equally perplexed, continued, _“I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled the northern sky at dawn; When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood.”_

“I have no idea what you are talking ab—“

_“The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet st—“_

“Enough!” Norrell cried, waving the cross at Childermass again and mumbling something under his breath. Childermass quieted, surveying Norrell with an expression that was trying and sorely failing not to look amused.

“Well that definitely did not work,” grumbled Norrell, fetching his shoes. He removed his wig and shut his book with a sigh. “Childermass, is it not time for you to fetch my tails and vizard? The order was supposed to arrive to-day.”

Childermass slipped on his boots and cleared his throat. “That is in London,” he said.

“I am aware of that,” said Norrell. “It will not be dark for some time.”

“It is not the hour that concerns me but the weather, as I recently elaborated on,” said Childermass. “A chaise would become stuck in the snow, and I do not fancy horseback in these conditions.”

“Oh but I must have that outfit!” replied Norrell. “Surely you do not mind a little snowfall? I fear it will thicken overnight and make to-morrow impossible to travel, and then I shall not have a dress to wear. Which would not be a bad thing at all,” he added, deliberating the possibilities of using that as an excuse to avoid the dreaded engagement altogether.

 With a look heavenward Childermass breezed past him. “I shall go now,” he said, hand on the brass door handle. He did a half turn and nodded toward the wig that Norrell had haphazardly tossed onto his desk. “And I suggest you give that a right comb while I am gone.”

Norrell was left alone with his wig, eyeing it as if he believed it would at any moment jump up and start singing.

 

 

 

If there was anything more miserable than a December in Yorkshire, Childermass knew not of it. All the stoicism in the world did not help when one had a faceful of snow, howling and biting at one’s cheeks and making one’s nose run. It was more a blizzard than a storm, and Childermass grit his teeth against the wind. He patted his horse on her shank and blew on his gloves in hopes of restoring feeling to his fingers.

For the party Norrell had ordered a plain blue waistcoat, silk short pants with matching white silk stockings, complete with a blue-and-gold embroidered tailcoat. He had no concept of the sartorial bon ton, preferring older styles—buckled shoes in lieu of laceup and a powdered wig over a hat. The vizard was little more than a gold strip of velvet with two eye holes, as Norrell proved to be extravagant in his spending of books but quite frugal when it came to creative expenditures.

The London tailor was a prim and somewhat anal fellow by the name of Castledome who yelled at Childermass for dripping on his wood floors. Typically Childermass did not mind a scolding, but when one has been on a stiff saddle for four hours in snowfall a little respect is appreciated. So he merely wiped his nose and smirked at the fellow, conveniently brushing up against anything dry and expensive-looking on his way out.

By the time he returned to Hurtfew Abbey with Norrell’s clothes Childermass resembled nothing short of a slab of meat in a locker. He was in the blackest of spirits, cold and hungry, but it was far too late to be rummaging around in the pantry without waking somebody up. So he trudged up to his chambers, slipped on a thin cotton night shirt, and retired for the night.

His hair, still wet, left damp curlicues on his pillow.

 

 

 

The next morning Childermass woke late to a stuffy pain between his eyes, an ache in his joints, and concluded that he had taken ill. It was rare for a person such as himself to do so, but not unheard of. He thought of informing his master and requesting a day off from service, but to-day was the day before Haythornthwaite’s party and Norrell was bound to have worked himself into a nervous wreck. Nothing, it seemed, could throw his master into a swivet more so than his family.

Childermass dressed and prepared for the day with nary a complaint save for a groan against the sunlight. Finding his hair to be sticking up every which way, he tied it back with a felt ribbon as best as he could. He estimated that, if this proved merely a head cold, he had at least until supper to complete his duties before his energy reserves ran dry.

Norrell was pacing his library when Childermass entered. He wrung his hands, sallow-faced and twitchy, toast and preserves on his round table scarcely touched. Just as Childermass had predicted. There lay a fresh pile of books stacked on his main desk like a sad, dusty burlesque of pancakes.

“There you are,” Norrell exclaimed, with bags under his eyes that mirrored Childermass’s own. He motioned to the books. “I have great need of you today, Childermass. We must go through these and find a proper spell that will prepare me for to-morrow evening.”

Childermass swallowed. “Unless you plan to use me as a magical monkey I doubt I will be of any use to you,” he said.

“No, no, I insist you remain! You have provided adequate insight into recent affairs, and—“Norrell reddened. “And I could use the, ah, the company lest I have trouble with my airways.”

It was the closest Norrell had ever gotten to paying another person a compliment. On any other day Childermass would have considered himself highly amused and the tiniest bit flattered. And because he had grown somewhat fond of Gilbert Norrell over the past five years, he could not find it in his heart to refuse.

 

 

 

By the late afternoon Childermass was beginning to get a sneaking, sinking suspicion that what he had was in fact the grippe. He was cold and feverish and rightly miserable, though more so from poring over dreary texts than the library’s scant heating.

Norrell was too captivated by his troubles to take much notice, which on some level Childermass supposed he was thankful for.

“What am I to do, Childermass? I sweat, I break out in red splotches when someone invades my personal space, and I care not for loud noises. Oh, how I will suffer to-morrow night!”

“Breathe, Mr Norrell.”

“Look here.” Norrell pointed to a paragraph of text. “Robert of Cumbria wrote of a spell that turns one into a crow. I do not condone animal transfiguration in the slightest (and especially of that bird), but if one were a crow one would not be noticed by gentlemen.”

Childermass leaned over to peer at the book. “That says deer, not crow,” he informed Norrell.10

“Oh. Well that is a different matter, then.”

They had been working all day to uncover some magic that might ease Norrell’s social terrors, with little success. Their options became more and more ridiculous by the hour as Norrell became more and more desperate. The clock on the far side of the library ticked in tandem with the pounding in Childermass’s head, and he found himself cursing Norrell’s fearfulness. Silently, of course. This throat ached.

Childermass took pride in his stoicism. In elemental terms he was the Earth to Norrell’s Air; they both manipulated and balanced the other extremely well (probably why Norrell had kept Childermass around as long as he had). But even he was beginning to fray in the face of sickness and fatigue.

Then, it happened.

At first, Childermass took no notice. It was later, at some point between chapters three and four of _Shortening the Nights of Yule_ that he realized his nose was tickling. Usually if he felt a sneeze coming on Childermass excused himself from whatever room he was in, took care of his business, and returned shortly after. Norrell typically paid it little regard, as sneezing was an expected result of spending one’s days amongst a large number of dust-covered books. 11

At present, Norrell was rambling on about a supposedly lost chapter of _Historia Regum Britanniae_ 12 and demanding Childermass’s utmost attention. Childermass wrinkled his nose in hopes of staving off the impending sneeze. He was not embarrassed, per say, but he would have much preferred to do this sort of thing in private, or at least in the presence of anyone but his master.

Norrell paused in his lecture. “Am I boring you, Childermass?” he asked.

“Hardly,” replied Childermass, striving for his usual dry wit but finding his eyes beginning to water. Biting his lip against a groan, he brought a knuckle to his nose and held it there. He had to sneeze something dreadful, and this time it was doubtful to escape his master’s attention.

“As I was saying,” Norrell continued, “after Merlin was falsely accredited with the creation of Stonehenge—”

He was suddenly interrupted by Childermass who, bent at the waist, had succumbed to a rather violent fusillade of sneezes. Alarmed, Norrell cringed and waited for Childermass to regain his composure. When it seemed Childermass was done he turned away from Norrell, mumbling a low “Excuse me,” and felt in his pockets for a ‘kerchief.

“Good god, Childermass! What has come over you?” exclaimed Norrell. For the first time that afternoon he seemed to recognize how tired and drawn his servant looked. “Ah. You have taken ill, I see.”

“It is nothing,” Childermass said around his ‘kerchief. “Do not pay it any mind.”

Norrell blinked rapidly. “Any mind!” he cried. “You know how easily I catch cold! When were you going to inform me of this?”

Childermass was silent.

“Very well. Off to bed with you,” Norrell ordered.

“It is but seven o’ clock,” protested Childermass.

Norrell scrunched up his nose and took a step backwards. “Do I look like I wish to catch what you have?” he asked, shooing Childermass out of the library. “Off to bed, I said! And do not shew up again until you are presentable.”

 

 

 

It was not until some hours later, when the candlelight cast dancing shadows over dismal English text that Mr Norrell began to feel bad about how he had treated Childermass. On the whole he had few qualms about reprimanding the help—they were all dull and slow, the lot of them—but he had been the one to send Childermass out into the snowstorm yesterday.

He thought about it for several moments and had just begun to convince himself that Childermass had _wanted_ to go out in the snow of his own accord when Norrell was startled by a yell from somewhere in the house. He rose, shin bumping painfully against the corner of his desk, and ran out into the hallway.

“What is all the commotion?” he demanded as two of the maids joined him in the corridor.

“It is Mister Childermass, sir!” one of them exclaimed.

“What?” There was another yell, hoarse but perfectly audible.

The other maid pointed up the stairs. “It is coming from his chambers!”

“Fetch me a cold washcloth,” Norrell snapped at one of them, who scurried into the pantry to find a clean rag. When she returned Norrell grabbed the rag from her and ordered the maids to leave him.

Childermass’s bedchambers held few personal affects, giving it a deceptively wide and spacious feel. Once ago it had been a nursery, but now it held only furniture and cobwebs. Upon entering Norrell found his servant in the throes of a nightmare, night shirt drenched in sweat and hair plastered to his face. He watched as Childermass tossed and turned on the four-poster bed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “Childermass, wake up. You are disturbing the house.” Childermass merely gave something of a moan and turned his head away from Norrell.

Norrell walked over and placed his palm against Childermass’s forehead. He scowled, not caring for the results, and, after moving some of Childermass’s hair away, draped the washcloth over his brow. Childermass stiffened and let out another cry. Norrell threw his hands up. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked, exasperated. He scratched behind one ear, thinking. Then he walked over to the door and turned the latch, locking it.

“How bothersome. It seems you leave me little choice in the matter,” Norrell said to no one in particular, coming to sit on the bed beside Childermass. He drew some symbols on the quilt with his index and pinky fingers, and another one over Childermass’s face with his thumb.

Then he called upon the magic of the moon and felt wind on his cheeks.

Norrell opened his eyes and glanced around, finding himself in a field of brown grass. Swords of various sizes and shapes protruded from the grass, over the hills and as far as the eye could see. Norrell tugged at his collar, finding the air uncomfortably warm. It was any wonder the grass was dead.

There was a tree to Norrell’s left, gnarled and misshapen, with something depending from its lower branches. As Norrell drew nearer he saw that the branch was a gibbet, and what dangled from it was in fact a hanged man. The hanged man was naked, and there was blood in his eyes. Norrell shrieked. He had not known Childermass capable of conjuring up such horrors, and he quickly made as much distance between himself and the corpse as possible.

At the center of the field stood an enormous stone band shell. It was impossibly tall, stretching up toward the coal-smoke clouds, and held carvings of Marseilles. Norrell himself was not too familiar with tarot or faro of any sort but curiously, as he drew closer, only _Le Bateleur_ and _La Roue de Fortune_ could be seen. Childermass stood in the mouth of the band shell, inspecting the sword hilts around him. He looked frightened.

Suddenly, Norrell felt uneasy. He would scarcely stand a chance against anything that could scare _Childermass._

“What is the matter?” Norrell called out, as Childermass jumped down into the grass and tugged at a rusty-looking hilt. Childermass released the hilt, wiped his fingers on his pants, and regarded Norrell with a dark expression.

“There are black feathers sticking to my back,” he replied.

“I do not see any feathers,” said Norrell.

“You cannot see them,” said Childermass, “but they are there all the same. I must hack them off before I truly become a bird.”

“You are dreaming, Childermass,” Norrell told him. “Quite feverishly. You are a man, as you always have been. And if you did have feathers, would hacking them off not be painful?” His servant gave him a look to say that he would gladly take all the pain in the world if it meant not turning into a bird.

“I do not have time to chat, Mr Norrell. I must find the sword,” he said.

“Here is a sword,” said Norrell, feeling somewhat foolish.

“No, not that one,” Childermass replied, shaking his head. “I must find Caledfwlch.13”

To Norrell, it sounded as if Childermass had spoken two words at exactly the same time. The effect was most unsettling, and he frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Excalibur.”

“What nonsense! If it is feathers there is nary a sword in this field that will do the trick,” said Norrell. “See, here…” he tugged at the hilt of a nearby sword, but found it would not budge from the grass.

Childermass shook his head sadly. “If I do not find Excalibur by the time it rains I shall become a _[Raven]_ bird.”

“And who has told you this?”

Childermass gazed at the sky and held out his arms. “The stones. The rain. _Him.”_

“Who? I do not understand.”

Childermass smiled that twisted smile of his. “Tell me sir, why are there roses in your eyes?” he asked, in lieu of an answer. Norrell shivered.

“Come Childermass, it is time to wake up. You are disrupting my house with your—“ But Childermass never found out with what he was disrupting Hurtfew Abbey, for at that moment the sky darkened and thunder belched from sated grey clouds.

Childermass, in a terror most unlike him, opened his mouth and cawed.

Norrell almost fled right then and there. But then he remembered that this was but a dream, and that the Childermass before him was merely a subconscious representation. The poor lad! If he could calm Childermass, the dream would end. There must be something he could do.

“What does Excalibur look like?” Norrell asked, voice shaky. Childermass, unsure if he would speak bird or man the next time he opened his mouth, shook his head.

Norrell blew out a breath through his nose. “Typical. Why do I surround myself with useless people?” He tapped his chin. “I do recall reading something in _Le Morte d’Arthur_ 14…yes, I remember now. You will want to look for a golden hilt, possibly with chimeras on it. One side of the blade will read, ‘Take Me Up’ and the other ‘Cast Me Down.’”

Norrell watched as Childermass walked amongst the swords under a thunder sky, and a notion came to him.

“Can one do magic in a dream?” he wondered. Norrell decided, to put Childermass at ease, he would cast a spell of summons. The summoning spells of Ormskirk were quite useless in reality, but perhaps they would work here. Norrell used a tuft of grass as a handsel and drew a line in the ground with his foot to signify the path of entry. He did not need an envoy, as he was summoning an object and not a living person.15

He did the magic, and a moment later was delighted to see a glowing golden hilt winking at him from a distant hill. Childermass ran to the hill and pulled out the sword, looking relieved as it lit his hands up with warm light. He opened his mouth to say something to Norrell, but Norrell was fading into the background and was gone before Childermass could reach him.

Norrell found himself on the floor of Childermass’s bedchambers, curled up in a foetal position. He rose, glad to be rid of swords and birds and hanged men, and saw that Childermass now lay on the bed in a peaceful sleep. His fever had broken.

After dusting his hands off and sparing his servant one final glance Norrell left to retire for the evening, casting a dusky black shadow on the moonlight behind him.

All was quiet at Hurtfew Abbey.

 

 

 

Several counties away in Shropshire, a young man with red hair woke with a start. The young woman who lay beside him stirred as he sat up and rubbed his face.

“Something the matter, Jonathan?” she asked, half asleep.

“I had the most curious dream, ‘Belle,” Jonathan Strange said. “I dreamt there was a dead field with a dark fellow of the sorts who was turning into a bird, and then I—“he cleared his throat. “Well, I did magic.”

Opening her eyes, Arabella turned to look at him. “Magic?”

Jonathan nodded with a yawn. “I summoned King Arthur’s sword.”

“Did you now?” Arabella smiled, familiar with her lover’s imagination. “It was incredibly vivid,” replied Jonathan. “In fact, when I woke up I was half convinced myself a magician!” Arabella stroked his arm and planted a light kiss on the back of his hand.

“Come back to bed, Merlin,” she said, with a laugh.

 

 

 

Norrell nearly choked on a dried fig when Childermass walked into the dining room fully dressed that morning. “I distinctly recall instructing you to remain in your quarters,” he managed, pounding on his chest.

“I am presentable,” Childermass croaked. Though his countenance was wan and shaky, he did indeed look less febrile than he had the previous evening.

Norrell pushed away his plate of figs, unconvinced. “Why do you insist on disobeying my every order?” he asked. “At times I think you derive great pleasure in impertinence, which I cannot fathom in the slightest.”

“I thought you might need my assistance to-day in preparing for your cousin’s engagement banquet,” said Childermass.

“Ah, that,” said Norrell. He shook his head with a little smile that was not entirely pleasant. “Let Haythornthwaite do his worst.”

Childermass frowned. “You do not appear worried,” he said. It was most unlike Norrell. “Has something happened?”

“Tell me, what do you remember of last night?”

Childermass took a seat at the dining table across from Norrell, ignoring the herring and Dutch butter that he would have normally eaten. He regarded his master with intrigue. “I am not sure what you are talking about, but I seem to recall something…” Childermass shook his head. “You were not doing dream magic by any chance? I was under the impression you found such things deuce disreputable.”

Norrell wagged a finger at him. “Do not presume to know what I do and do not like,” he said. “If I can manage you, John Childermass, a roomful of people should pose no problem.”

Childermass leaned back in his chair with a cough, folding his arms and saying, “So your fears of this party have vanished, just like that, then?”

“Oh I shall hate every minute of it, but I have discovered more frightening things in this world. And beyond it.”

“Such as in the minds of men?”

“You catch on quickly.”

“It is a failure on my part to remember exactly what transpired,” Childermass began, “but I’d prefer you refrain from entering my dreams in the imminent future.”

“Believe you me, it was a nonce occasion. I do not plan to make a habit of it,” replied Norrell, with a shudder. He decided to change the subject. “I take it you are feeling better to-day?”

Childermass gave a shrug. He still felt rather ill, and it would be some days before he recovered fully. Norrell seemed to understand.

“You are relieved of your duties for the day,” he said. “Return to your bedchambers and rest.”

“Thank you,” said Childermass, rising with another cough. It was likely to settle in his lungs, but he was young and strong and the worst of it would pass within a week. During that time he would have to contend with Norrell’s complaints of his cousin’s party, which were sure to be extensive and long-winded.

In truth, Childermass would not have had it any other way.

Norrell went back to his figs and regarded the untouched herring at the table. “Hate to see a breakfast go cold,” he noted. “Have one of the maids fetch you that toasted cheese rubbish or whatever it is that you usually eat, if you are hungry later.”

“Do not presume to know what I do and do not like, Mr Norrell,” said Childermass, with a bow and a sideways grin.

 

_End._

 

 

* * *

 

Footnotes:

 

1 A ridotto; a masked party popular in 18th century England.

2 Slang for personal taste or inclination.

3 Henry Halstead was an English banker who studied for a short time with Martin Pale. He was known to experience a particular condition that was seen from time to time, which today has a name: autism. Norrell’s unintentional insult here is certainly a joke upon himself, for it is well known that those on the autistic spectrum have deeper access to practical magic.

4 Agrace, often called the Bitter Lands, is one of the Raven King’s three kingdoms and said to reside on the far side of Hell.

5 In iambic pentameter, called a heroic couplet. Childermass was so astonished by the spell that he forgot two stanzas.

6 For five days, Childermass not only spoke in proper Shakespearean sonnets, but in Petrarchan and Spenserian sonnets as well. This brings to mind a curious story of the great Aureate magician Catherine of Winchester, recorded by Martin Pale in 1529:

Catherine of Winchester was rumored to have been quite beautiful amongst her friends and associates. She was courted by many a gentleman, most of whom fancied her looks before her intellect. To these gentlemen she cast upon magic of the most amusing sort. There was one such fellow by the name of Thornley who persisted in the Lady’s hand so aggressively that Lady Catherine felt the need to enchant him.

Thornley soon found he could speak only in macaronic Dog Latin (imitation Latin, often used for a humorous effect). Not only was the Latin incomprehensible, but Thornley discovered that he would often vacillate between this and Welsh, a language that Catherine of Winchester considered the most foreign tongue imaginable. When Thornley’s enchantment wore off, after a year and a day, he lost all interest in the Lady and in speaking altogether.

The narrator mentions this because curiously, Norrell attempted to remedy the spell he had put on Childermass. The effects, rather than breaking the enchantment, had Childermass reciting sonnets in macaronic Welsh, much to the chagrin of the household staff.

7 _Dreamwork for the Erotically Troubled, vol. III._

8 Sir Kenton Langley’s spell to repel people, which fell out of style after only a week due to its malodorous nature.

9 Norrell is referring to an ankh.

10 We can presume the book Norrell has is in Latin. Crow or raven is _corvus,_ while deer reads as _cervus._ Under a dim light and faded ink, misreading these is a common error.

11 Norrell’s literary collection in Hurtfew Abbey was estimated to contain roughly five thousand volumes by the year 1806. One might not believe dusting to prove such a lucrative business, and one might then scoff at the maids for saying so, but it is well known that Gilbert Norrell’s housemaids had some of the best wages in Yorkshire.

12 Actual existing book by Geoffrey of Monmouth, written circa 1136.

13 Evidently, Welsh was still on Childermass’s mind following the events of the previous week.

14 Actual existing work compiled by Thomas Malory and published in 1485.

15 English spells of summons require three parts: the envoy, the path, and the handsel. Here Norrell is improvising; something that his future pupil Jonathan Strange would have been most proud of.

 

 


End file.
